in the waiting room at the breast imaging centre, there is a sea of women in blue gowns. some are seated. some are standing, leaned against the wall, looking at their phones or just looking around. they are young and they are old. tall, short, fat and thin – with hair and without. on this day there are no men, but i’ve seen them here because men get breast cancer, too. i close my eyes and my sisters in blue fade like waves on a horizon. i focus on the metallic chatter from the tv and the clamoring ring of a phone no one has answered. i want to hear music; i want to hear the street sounds. i don’t want to be here. none of us do. yet all our hope lies here, in the waiting room.
one of the cruel aspects of this disease is that it hits us in such an intimate part of our bodies. practically speaking, the breast is more expendable than some other parts of us. we can remove a breast and go on living. but they’re also an inextricable part of who we are. they’re a site of pleasure. they also feed our babies. they represent, in many ways, the cycle of life.
so, when someone takes a waterproof pen and draws a map across them or leads us into a dark biopsy room to remove a part of them, a part of us can go missing, too. when a patient is told she can potentially save her life by having a breast removed, it raises a complex array of feelings. breasts, while not necessary for our lives, are far from vestigial. and it can be very painful when we have to say goodbye – in part or in full – to them.